Goddess of the Dead (Wellington Undead Book 2)

by Richard Estep

  “There has been no sign of the enemy during the day’s watch, Lieutenant Campbell?”

  The youthful Scot shook his head earnestly. “None, sir. The picquets reported no activity throughout the course of the day, nor did the cavalry scouts encounter enemy horsemen during their reconnaissance sweeps further afield.”

  “The enemy plays coy with us.” The voice was that of Colonel Michael Connolly, appointed to command of the 33rd as Arthur’s replacement. In truth, Arthur still missed being their colonel; he still thought of the regiment as being uniquely his, and his alone, which explained their presence in the current order of battle. The original plan had been for them to remain at Seringapatam, securing the island-city, along with the roads and surrounding countryside from bandits and desperadoes. More than willing to pull a few strings, Arthur had put paid to that particular idea as soon as he had heard of it, giving orders for the regiment to accompany his expeditionary force northward onto the Deccan Plateau and into the lands of the Marathas.

  “So it would seem, Colonel, so it would seem.” Wellesley narrowed his eyes, staring into the flickering light of a candle on the tabletop. Nobody around the table spoke for several heartbeats.

  Finally, he appeared to come to a decision.

  “With that being the case, gentlemen, it seems that we have no choice but to press the matter ourselves.”

  The remark was greeted with a chorus of enthusiastic assent from the assembled officers.

  “I feel duty-bound to remind you, sir, that we are not yet at war,” Connolly pointed out, a note of warning evident in his tone. “Not a shot has been fired.”

  “Leaving aside the constant stream of murder and pillage that has been inflicted upon the frontier settlements, you are correct,” Arthur replied equably. “But let us speak plainly, bluntly even…the status quo cannot be maintained forever. It is devilishly expensive to maintain an army in the field, particularly one such as ours which does not simply take what it wishes from the poor farmers found along the way. No, we must either strike now, or withdraw to Mysore once more in ignominy, having achieved nothing of any real worth.”

  “May I ask what it is that you propose, sir?” the Colonel asked respectfully.

  In answer, Wellesley beckoned for a subaltern to unroll the large map of the Deccan plateau and surrounding geography which he maintained for just such a purpose. Spreading it out upon the tabletop, the Major General indicated the army’s approximate location with a single pointed fingernail. “We, gentlemen, are here. The enemy is somewhere to the north, although precisely where, we are not sure. But what we can know with some degree of certainty is the location of the closest enemy fortification, and it is there that we shall strike.”

  The tip of Wellesley’s fingernail tapped sharply three times on a clearly-marked spot, one which bore a single word in carefully-penciled script: Ahmednuggur.

  “Why strike there, General?” enquired Colonel Harness curiously. “With the greatest of respect, should not our aim be to locate and defeat the main force of the Maratha army?” He peered more closely at the map. “Ahmednuggur looks to be a small place, unless the map is not drawn correctly to scale.”

  “The map is accurate,” Wellesley replied, covering his annoyance at being second-guessed by maintaining a light and civil tone. “And you are right when you point out that this would not be a major strategic objective — under ordinary circumstances at least. But these are no ordinary circumstances. The town is co-located with a fortress,” the General went on, “and both are presently under the governorship of Scindia. We know that only a small force of perhaps two to three thousand holds both places — a mix of regular Maratha troops and Arab soldiers-for-hire — but we dare not press on into Maratha lands in pursuit of Scindia and the Raja of Berar without securing our rear first.”

  Connolly nodded sagely. “Even just two thousand men could wreak havoc on our supply trains and sever our lines of communication,” he agreed.

  “Precisely. And so we have little choice but to seize Ahmednuggur first, before the meat of our campaign may commence. Are there any questions?”

  Enemy at the Gates

  “A battering ram?” Lieutenant-Colonel William Wallace scoffed, slapping the palm of a hand down on the tabletop with unrestrained mirth.

  The senior officers were once more gathered around the central table, enjoying brandy, arrack, or blood, depending upon each man’s preferred poison.

  “Then I am forced to conclude that you have a better suggestion, Colonel?” Wellesley asked drily, raising an eyebrow as he regarded the red-headed commander of the 74th.

  “Indeed I do, sir,” Wallace said, turning sober in an instant.

  “Please do enlighten us.”

  “Use a cannon,” he answered confidently.” Oh, I’d say a six-pounder should do the trick nicely. Double-shot the bugger, drag it up against the gate, and blow the bloody doors off.”

  This time, both of Arthur’s eyebrows went up.

  A cannon, by God. That may just serve.

  “A cannon is going to be dashed heavy,” he mused, already weighing the risks and benefits of Wallace’s proposal.

  “So is a battering ram,” Wallace countered, “and the difference is that the cannon is mounted on a pair of wheels, sir. We’ll pick some of the burliest lads. They’ll be well-motivated to push and drag the damned thing, what with the enemy taking them under fire. No city gate ever built could withstand a six-pounder at point-blank range.”

  “Especially one that’s double-shotted,” added Colonel William Harness thoughtfully. Harness commanded Wellesley’s second brigade, in parallel to Wallace’s first. His brigade was centered around the 78th Regiment of Foot, fighting men who, like the men of the 74th, were also hard-drinking Scots warriors that loved to fight.

  “What harm will discharging the cannon at such close range cause to our men?” Arthur demanded.

  “Precious little, assuming that they show the common sense to stand clear and to duck,” Wallace dismissed the concern with an airy wave of the hand. “Splinters will be a concern, aye, but the lads should be able to shelter to either side of the gateway, put some nice thick wall between them and the blast.”

  “With respect sir, won’t the enemy will have plenty of time to see us coming and assemble their forces behind the gate?” said Colin Campbell. The young Lieutenant was also a Scot, who had done a brief spell as a midshipman on an East Indiaman before picking up a commission in the army instead. Arthur thought that he looked rather boyish, which belied the adventurous nature of his twenty-seven years. Campbell had been in and out of more scrapes than some men twice his age, and he had been picked out as a young man who might perhaps go on to do great things in His Britannic Majesty’s army…if he survived.

  Arthur suspected that once Campbell attained the rank of captain, it would not be long before he was offered the Dark Gift to go along with it. The young man served as the lieutenant of the 78th’s Grenadier company, a plum assignment if ever there was one, and it was said that his company commander, Captain Huddlestone, had no shortage of confidence in Campbell’s abilities.

  Huddlestone would be the one to recommend him for turning, and Wellesley knew that he himself would endorse the recommendation without the slightest hesitation. He had witnessed the lieutenant drilling his troops and perhaps more importantly, inspecting the men with a critical eye for such embuggerances as blisters and the Malabar Itch. An officer who put the fighting condition of his men before his own welfare was a rarity, and something to be nurtured.

  “Aye, they will,” agree Wallace, “and I suspect that is the reason why the General is sending in not one column to attack, but three.”

  All eyes turned back to Wellesley.

  “You are quite correct, Colonel. And make no mistake about it, I shall look to you to lead the assault.”

  “It would be my honor, General.”

  Vampires did not flush, but had they been able to, W
ellesley suspected that Wallace would have turned beetroot at the honor just afforded to him.

  Seated next to Wallace, Harness opened his mouth to speak — most likely to protest, if Wellesley were any judge of the man. He therefore cut him off peremptorily.

  “Before you protest my decision, Colonel Harness, you should know that you too have been chosen to spearhead the assault on Ahmednuggur.”

  “You do me great honor, General,” Harness all but stammered, his protest now completely forgotten.

  “I merely recognize your competence, gentlemen, and choose to act upon it. Now, here is my plan of attack…”

  The Emissary

  The British officers had assembled their attacking force just after sunset. Each man had been given a hearty breakfast and as much of a full day’s sleep as was possible, given the heat. There was precious little complaining among the ranks, just the occasional shuffling as the infantrymen changed position to ease the load on their feet.

  The men knew that their vampire general would allow true darkness to settle upon the land before launching his assault.

  There was no honor to be found in a sneak attack, and it would have been insulting to the capabilities of Scindia’s officers to even try. They knew that the British would come at night — that they must come at night — and so had gotten into the routine of resting their men during the hours of daylight, rousing them for breakfast just before dusk and having them stand-to with weapons at the ready during the hours of darkness.

  Before even a single shot could be fired, the time-honored forms of gentlemanly warfare must be obeyed.

  The clocks were reading a quarter till ten. Jamelia stood on the firestep atop a section of the pettah walls and watched the lone British rider approach, the white blaze upon his horse’s nose the only thing to mark him out in the darkness. Then his red jacket and white trousers became visible, and lastly a pair of glowing red eyes.

  He is doing that for effect. It is an attempt to scare us. Well, this Englishman shall find out that we are not so easily intimidated.

  Behind the rider, the massed forces of the British and their Indian lap-dogs waited. Vampires were not the only creatures with heightened senses, Jamelia reminded herself. She had almost forgotten that the soldiers standing to her left and right, most of them wearing the white uniforms and dark cross-belts of Pohlmann’s compoo, could see nothing other than a formless black mass out there upon the plains. The assembly of enemy soldiers was still invisible to those who were not vampires, which was the great majority of the force assigned to hold Ahmednuggur against Wellesley and his men.

  The officer — for surely the British would be too snobbish to send an enlisted man — rode at a leisurely trot, doubtless concerned that his horse might lose its footing in the darkness and break a leg. Under one arm he held a pole to which a white flag was affixed. It fluttered in the light breeze.

  “That’s quite close enough, Englishman.”

  Obediently, the officer spurred his horse to a halt just outside of musket range of the pettah walls. The man raised his voice, sounding thoroughly bored with the chore he was about to perform.

  “Major General Arthur Wellesley, commanding officer of His Britannic Majesty’s army in northern India, bids you welcome. I come bearing a flag of truce, seeking terms.”

  “Terms?” Jamelia sounded faintly amused.

  Two glowing red eyes snapped sharply upwards. She could already practically read the vampire’s mind, but still could not quite believe that he dared say what he chose to say next.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” the officer drawled, “but is there by any chance a man that I could parley with? Perhaps your husban—”

  The sound of a musket firing split the still night air asunder. A pistol-ball zipped past the messenger’s face, slicing the tip of one pointed ear as it went. Instantly, the injured flesh began to smoke and char. The vampire clapped a hand to his ear and hissed, baring his fangs in anger. All semblance of restraint was now gone.

  “That ball was made of silver,” Jamelia called out helpfully from the firestep, leaning the smoking musket against the rounded upper rampart. “I tolerate condescension and disrespect from no man, least of all a dried-out husk of an Englishman such as you.”

  “Bitch!”

  “Such language is most unbecoming of a King’s officer,” she tutted, favoring him with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. “It seems that perhaps a second lesson is in order.”

  She retrieved the musket once more and made a great show of reloading the weapon in front of him, slowly and methodically. The vampire’s gleaming red eyes watched the second silver ball carefully as Jamelia dropped it into the barrel and withdrew the ramrod from the three round hoops that held it snugly in place against the barrel.

  From her careful and meticulous study of vampire lore, Jamelia knew that such creatures could suffer permanent wounding if they were struck with silver anywhere on their body; but a penetrating hit to the head or torso would be fatal, causing them to burst into flames and suffer total immolation.

  She was a crack shot, even with something as inaccurate as a musket. The range had been moderate rather than long, and her intent had never been to kill the vampire — merely to send a message to his master.

  Jamelia brought the rifle back up to her shoulder with insouciant slowness. Unwilling to call her bluff, the British officer flashed his fangs impotently once more, before turning his horse and galloping away. She was more than capable of putting the silver ball between his shoulder blades even at this range, but that had never been the point.

  “Go and tell your general that we await his presence eagerly,” she called instead, eliciting grins and laughter from the men on either side of her. “Perhaps we will have some hot tea waiting for him when he gets here…”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Assault on Ahmednuggur

  “Quite a sight to see, ain’t they?” Wellesley said to himself under his breath, regarding the three columns of troops which were now fully formed-up in front of him.

  He waited patiently, allowing Diomed to wander along the length of one of the columns and back. The evening breeze stirred dust into swirls around the feet of the men, but otherwise all was still and calm.

  The sound of the shot came as a surprise to everybody. Wellesley actually saw the flash of light from on top of the pettah walls a split-second before the noise reached his ears.

  Have they fired upon Captain Bridge while under a flag of truce? If they have dared violate the code of safe conduct, I shall make them wish that they had never been born!

  The sound of thudding hooves reached him next. Bridge appeared out of the darkness moments later, his white flag streaming behind him as he rode. When he reigned in next to his general and offered a smart salute, Wellesley returned it and looked the man up and down without letting a trace of the anxiety he suddenly felt show on his face.

  “You are unhurt, sir? I heard a shot fired.”

  “I am largely unharmed, General, and you did indeed hear a shot. I had the misfortune for it to graze me.”

  Bridge was completely bald, his scalp shaved completely clean beneath his black bicorn hat. The captain tilted his head to one side, affording Wellesley a clear view of his ear. Like those of all vampires, the tips of his ears were swept back and slightly pointed. It appeared to Arthur that the end of Bridge’s left ear had been torn completely away, leaving an ugly ragged tear in the cartilage that had already necrosed the skin around it and begun to turn it black.

  “This was no ordinary musket ball – this was a silver munition.” Bridge’s eyes glowed a baleful red as he briefly recounted the events which had just taken place outside the pettah walls.

  “Indeed,” Wellesley agreed, his face hardening to become as cold as the light of the stars that circled above their heads. “Tell me what you can recall of their killadar.”

  “Well, sir, it seems that that was the issue which occasioned the
enemy to open fire upon me. You see, the person who answered my call for a parley was a female—“

  “A woman?” Wellesley was incredulous. Admittedly, he had encountered one female battlefield commander before, but she...

  Captain Bridge was staring at him, he realized.

  “Describe her,” he ordered flatly.

  “I could see little of her body above the parapet, General.” Bridge was apologetic. “A native, certainly, but an English speaker – and an educated one, based upon the sound of her voice. The inflections were all very British. She seemed taller than the men posted on either side of her, and I could see dark hair drawn back and tied. I’m afraid that I can recall little else of value, sir.”

  Struggling for control of his expression, Wellesley said: “You did not serve at the storming of Seringapatam, did you, Captain?”

  “Regrettably not, sir.”

  “Which means that you are unfamiliar with the Tipu Sultan’s daughter.”

  “I have heard of her, General, but it’s true that I have no direct experience. I was still in transit from England at the time of your great victory. Do you believe it is the same woman?”

  There came no answer for a few moments. Wellesley appeared to be deep in thought, his eyes narrow. Finally he answered, “I cannot envision there being a great many female commanders of military units, Captain Bridge. The Sultan’s daughter was a skilled tactician and a capable adversary, and her gender was of no account.”

  He sighed. Vampires put less stock in the differences between the sexes than their mortal counterparts seemed to. The flesh-and-blood men of today’s so-called ‘polite society’ had very definite ideas with regards to the nature of a woman’s place, and more particularly with how far she ought to be allowed to rise. Many believed that women ought not to be permitted to work at all, and they were certainly far too frail and delicate to be permitted to serve in the army or navy.